All Said and Done
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: REVISED from original as of 4.6.13. "I'm not really supposed to discuss the details of the case with you." Claire Matthews visits Agent Ryan Hardy in the hospital just as he's being discharged after receiving his pacemaker. Rated K, a Ryan/Claire friendship fic.


**Title**: _All Said And Done_ (1/1)

**Author**: fais2688

**Rating**: K

**Universe**: Pre-_The Following, _2003

**Characters:** Ryan Hardy and Claire Matthews; with mentions of Joe Carroll

**Summary:** Claire Matthews visits Agent Ryan Hardy in the hospital just as he's being released after receiving his pacemaker.**  
**

**Author's Note**: This is just a small little thing, set after Carroll's capture in 2003, but before the trials that sentenced him to life in prison. I like to think Claire went and visited Ryan when she heard Joe almost killed him, and that was how their friendship—and eventual romance—began. Here's my take on what might've happened. Please enjoy. :)

.

.

.

Ryan Hardy was doing up the final buttons on his shirt when he heard a knock on the door. He sighed, shutting his eyes and already picturing the stern face of Robert Franklin, the director of the FBI, who had been here earlier this morning. _We aren't letting you go, _he said—lying—as he'd stood at the foot of Ryan's hospital bed._ We're just giving you time off. Disability is nothing to be ashamed of, Ryan—certainly not after what you accomplished._

Ryan rubbed a hand over the side of his face, forcing the memory away. It didn't matter what Franklin had said, or what anyone else did. No matter how nicely the words were phrased, the idea was still the same: You're done. You're fired. You don't have a place here anymore.

_You caught Carroll when no one else could, when no one else even had a lead, and you have no idea how much we appreciate that, Ryan, how grateful we are, but the reality of your situation _now_ is that—_

"Come in," he called, his voice coming out a great deal louder than he'd intended, certainly louder than what was appropriate for the setting. He shook it off. He had to drown out the memories filling his head somehow, he supposed. Franklin, of all people, had to understand.

He strapped on his watch as he listened to the door open, his back still facing his visitor. He had already spent fifteen minutes with Franklin this morning—practically an eon, considering the man's schedule—and he was not looking to elongate those minutes. He wondered, waiting for the man to speak, how he'd even found a few more spare minutes to stop by again. Ryan thought every minute of Franklin's day was booked for at least the next four years.

"Um, excuse me, I…"

Ryan frowned, turning around when he heard a woman's voice instead of the deep baritone of Franklin's that he'd been expecting. He stopped when he saw who it was; he recognized her immediately despite the strangeness of seeing her here, in his room at the hospital. What in the world was she doing here? He wondered briefly how she'd even found out he was in here before greeting her hurriedly, "Professor Matthews. Hi."

She smiled reflexively, probably out of nervousness—he could see her fidgeting with the strap on her purse—and yet he couldn't help but smile back, despite everything that had happened today. She had such a nice smile. "Hi, Agent Hardy." Her voice was soft and quiet as she spoke.

He swallowed, the smile faltering on his face as she addressed him. _Agent Hardy. _He didn't want to tell her to stop calling him that yet, even though he knew he should. Although he still had a few days to be an agent before all the paperwork went through, Franklin had all but confessed that the transition had been completed the moment the surgeons had put that damned pacemaker in his chest. The paperwork was all that was left now. He cleared his throat, looking across the room at her. "What can I do for you?"

She shook her head, hanging it a bit. Ryan found himself wanting to bend over just to see her smile again. "There's nothing you need to do for me," she replied after a moment, her face surfacing again. The smile wasn't there. "But I…" She abruptly turned her head to the side, staring at the far wall as she dragged her teeth over her lower lip. Ryan was just about to wonder why she'd come here, what she wanted, when she whispered, her voice even quieter than before, "I w—want to know what he did to you. Joe," she added, and he could see her face grow taut as she said his name. "I want… want to know how he hurt you. I want to know why you're in here."

_No, you don't_. The words were on the tip of Ryan's tongue, but somehow he managed to swallow them. It took him a couple seconds to come up with an answer he felt she would believe. "I'm really not supposed to discuss the details of the case with you, Professor Matthews."

"You're lying," she countered at once.

He raised his eyebrows at her, shocked at her quick reply. It was a poor excuse, yes, but he'd at least expected her to play along. Didn't she know by now that the world held too many ugly secrets? It wouldn't help to uncover them all, especially the ones that could never be set to rights.

"You told me about the—the eyes," she continued, explaining it all very quickly. "When we met," she added, as if he couldn't still recall every moment of the case in excruciating detail, "you said it was withheld from the public, but you told me anyway. You can tell me this, too."

"I told you that was when I was still looking for him," Ryan qualified, remembering when he'd first approached her on Winslow's campus. When he'd still been an agent. When he'd had a job and a life and a purpose. When he hadn't had this damn career-ending piece of metal stuck inside his chest. He sighed, muttering, "And I really wasn't supposed to tell you that then, anyway."

"Why did you, then?" Professor Matthews crossed her arms, staring across the room at him. He could tell by the look in her eyes that she was nowhere near dropping this. "Why did you tell me?"

"Because nine girls were dead," Ryan shot back, struggling to keep the impatience he felt out of his voice. He could feel his anger rising; he could see the bodies stacking up one on top of the other on top of the other. _And five more died after that because you didn't spot him quick enough. _"I was trying to catch a killer, Professor Matthews. I was desperate for any help that I could get."

"Yeah, and I helped," she replied. She exhaled sharply, her chest rising and falling rapidly before she demanded to know, "Why won't you just tell me?" She looked him up and down, gesturing at him with her free hand as the other clutched her purse. "You look pretty okay to me. He didn't even break your arm or anything. Why won't you just say what he did? It isn't like he killed you, or put you in a wheelchair, or—" She broke off, staring at him with widening eyes as he began undoing the buttons of his shirt, starting at the top, as he walked towards her. "What—" Her eyes grew round, rising to his, as she continued, "Agent Hardy, what—what are you doing?"

"You wanted to know," he replied quietly, pulling the thin material of his shirt aside once he'd unbuttoned it halfway down his torso. "He got me in the heart," he explained, baring the left side of his chest and revealing the anomalous bulge there. He could hear her soft intake of breath clearly in the silence of the room; it sounded as loud as a gust of wind during a storm. He felt perversely satisfied at taking her breath away. "Fitting, huh?" he wondered quietly.

"Is that a p—pace…" She swallowed, unable to stop staring at the unnaturally raised section of chest even as she spoke. "How—How did he… What did he…?" Her eyes finally rose from his chest to his face, and he saw her pupils widen as she came to the answer in her own mind. Her face filled with sorrow and pity so acute Ryan couldn't help but look away. He didn't anyone to look at him like that. Not the nurses or the doctors. Not Jenny. Not Franklin. Not her. "Agent Hardy, I…" Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her mouth opening and closing as she struggled to find the right thing to say. "I… I don't know what to say, I—"

"And that's why I didn't want to tell you," he cut in smoothly. He forced a smile, his lips straining with the effort and he turned back to face her. "I'll be fine. I just have to stay away from moving around a lot for the next few weeks. And no more strenuous activities," he added lightly, as if the matter was inconsequential, as if it didn't reduce his daily activities down to doing nothing but sitting in a room and staring at a wall from dawn 'til dusk.

"And… And the FBI?" she wondered, sounding almost like she was scared of asking.

He closed his eyes, wishing he could lie to her—both to save her the worry, for he knew she'd blame herself, and to spare himself the second-hand humiliation. He'd suffered through enough indignities already, and the day had barely started. He didn't want any more of her slack-jawed pity. "They… let me go," he admitted, feeling the shame wash over him like a drowning wave as he stared into the darkness behind his eyelids. "Di—Disability," he managed to add a second later, trying to save face, but that only made it all sound so much worse. So much more pathetic. The water rose around him, smothering him in disgrace and depriving him of his senses, so that by the time he'd miraculously resurfaced again, he'd missed whatever it was she'd said. "Wha… What?" he managed to ask, still sputtering as if he really had been held underwater. "What did you say?"

"I said—I said I was sorry," she replied at once, and when he looked into her eyes, he could see she meant it. "I'm so…" Her eyebrows pulled together with concern. "Agent Hardy, I am _so_ sorry—"

He forced another smile, and a light tone. "Don't be," he told her, reaching down to do up the buttons on his shirt again. "You weren't there to stop him. There was nothing you could've done." He paused after he'd finished, catching her eye as he added, more seriously this time, "It's not your fault, Professor Matthews."

"I… I lived in the same house as him," she replied, her voice filling with regret as it fell to an almost inaudible hush. Ryan's ears had to strain to pick up every word. "We—We shared a bed, had a child, I…" She shut her eyes, and Ryan watched as she squeezed them tight for a few silent seconds before finally opening them and whispering, "I should've known."

Ryan could hear the self-loathing in her voice, and he had to bite back a sigh so he wouldn't get into a fight about who held the most blame. He knew he would win, anyway. It was his job to catch people like Carroll. _He _should've known. _He _should've seen it. He should've arrested Carroll the moment he'd met him. But instead, he'd let himself be blinded. He'd had a drink with the man, read his book, sought his counsel, stepped inside his home… And in doing so, he'd let five more girls get murdered, tortured, sliced open. _He hadn't seen._

"I should've known, too," he muttered finally, still struggling to force the memories away. Unlike those of Franklin's earlier visit, his remembrances of his time with Carroll were so much more visceral, so much realer… He could feel his heartbeat begin to pick up speed in his chest, and he took a deep breath, forcing his attention elsewhere to calm it down. He'd been told over and over again not to dwell on the past. _It won't be good for your heart, Mr. Hardy. You'd do well to try to forget it all as quick as you can._

"How are you doing?" he wondered abruptly, trying to move away from the past he'd never be able to change, never be able to set to rights. _Let it go, Mr. Hardy._ "Are you… getting ready?"

Professor Matthews sniffed, looking away for a moment and delicately wiping her fingers beneath her eyes before answering. Ryan looked discreetly in the other direction. He could still feel his heart beating in his chest, though for a very different reason now. For all the time he had spent around death and grieving loved ones, he'd still never quite learned how to appropriately deal with a crying woman. He could still remember Jenny, after their mother had died, sitting alone and sobbing in that uncomfortable chair by her bedside. Her body had been hunched—doubled over in grief—and yet he hadn't known what to do. Was he supposed to hold her? Tell her things were going to be okay? Or should he just let her mourn in peace? Not having an answer, he'd simply stood, off to the side, and let his own tears leak out, one at a time, as he struggled to focus on his mother and what kind of person she had been instead of on what a terrible brother he was, what an awful example he was leaving behind in her faultless wake.

Though over thirty years had passed since then, little had changed.

He and Jenny didn't talk about their mother. They didn't talk about their father. They certainly didn't talk about Ray. He'd held her hand during each of their funerals, but only because she'd initiated it. He'd hugged her tight and rubbed her back, but only because she'd hugged him first. For someone who saw so much grief, he knew very little about it, and less about how to cope with it.

Now, as he stood in his hospital room, sneaking furtive glances in Claire Matthews' direction, he couldn't help but be grateful that he didn't know her very well. If they had been friends or colleagues—anything other than momentary acquaintances—he might've had to comfort her. He might've had to force out inspiring but ultimately meaningless words of solace; he might've had to hold her and tell her things were going to be okay.

As things stood, they shared nothing more than a very uncomfortable connection, especially in light of what was about to take place in the coming months. Therefore—thankfully—he didn't have to do anything but look the other way and wait for her to pull herself together. Even as he did so, he couldn't help but steal quick looks in her direction to check on her. He had never known how to comfort crying women, no, but now he couldn't help but feel that maybe he should try to find out. He wondered what Jenny would say if he broached the topic with her.

"You… You mean the trial?" she finally asked, clearing her throat to rid the tears, as he turned back to look at her. She gave a sad shrug when their eyes met. "Am I ready for the trial?" she wondered aloud with a bleak laugh. "I don't know. How do you get ready for something like that?"

Ryan frowned slightly, eyeing her inquisitively. "What do you mean?" he asked. _What's there to get ready for when all you have to do is tell the truth? _he thought but didn't say.

"I mean…" Professor Matthews licked her lips, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. She stared down at the floor for a few seconds before her eyes flashed abruptly to his. He looked back at her, startled at the desperation he saw there. "What am I supposed to say to them, Agent Hardy?" she wondered hopelessly, her tone of voice unfortunately matching the look in her eyes. "They're… They're going to put me up on the—the stand and ask me… all kinds of things." She sniffed again, wiping beneath her eyes again before continuing quickly, "They're… They're going to ask me about him, about our—our marriage, and our baby…" She sucked in a ragged breath. "My, My lawyer said they're going to w—want to know if he ever showed signs of violence or malicious intent towards me and I… I…" she trailed off, her shoulders shrugging helplessly.

Ryan bit down hard on his tongue. The words _Did he? _flashed through his mind, and for the umpteenth time, he made himself quell his desire to ask her. It was none of his business—especially now that he wasn't even an agent anymore. Her story rested with the attorneys now and it was not something he was privy to anymore.

"I can't talk about those things in front of a courtroom," she continued, barely noticing his strained silence. "I—I can't answer the sorts of questions they're going to ask me about our marriage."

_Why not? _Ryan bit down harder on his tongue, painfully clenching the malleable flesh between his teeth. _Because he hurt you?_

"What do I do?" Her eyes searched his face, and the desperate edge in her voice became more pronounced now than ever before. "What do I say?"

"Just tell the truth," he advised simply. "That's all the lawyers and the court want: the truth."

"That's easier said than done," she pointed out.

"It is," Ryan admitted. "But once you do it, you're through with it." He paused, eyeing her as he added, more serious now, "And you _have_ to do it, Professor Matthews."

She nodded, looking down. "Yeah," she murmured after a moment. "I know I do."

Ryan watched her, waiting for her to look up again, but she never did. The silence dragged on so long that he was nearly about to excuse himself when she finally spoke again.

"Are you… going to be there?" she wondered softly, drawing out the question nervously.

"At the courthouse?" Ryan nodded. "Yeah. I am."

She looked up at him with a smile this time, looking genuinely pleased to hear that. "Good," she replied at once. "Good, I'm glad you'll be there." Her smile grew a little bigger. "At least there will be _one_ friendly face for me to focus on."

"Everyone's a friendly face," Ryan replied automatically, even as he felt an odd sense of pleasure wash over him at the idea of her seeking him out solely for comfort and support.

"Joe isn't."

Ryan started a bit at how casually she dropped him into conversation, but after a moment, he calmed down and nodded, allowing her point. "Well… Yeah," he replied lamely. After a second, he managed to add, "But you know you don't have to look at him. You can direct your statements to the attorneys or the judge. You don't have to look at him if you don't want to."

"I know I don't _have _to," Professor Matthews replied, "but I…" She lifted her right hand to rub her left arm, as if a chill had passed through the room the very moment they began discussing her husband. Ryan's shoulders rolled a little bit at the thought. "But I'm worried I won't be able to ignore him. It'll… It'll be the first time I've seen him since he was arrested." She looked down, hiding her face as she admitted, "What if… What if I look once, and then I can't look away? I won't… I won't be able to speak if he stares at me the same way he does with everyone else. I won't be able to focus, or think. Not with him _glaring_ at me like that."

"Then don't look in the first place," Ryan replied, understanding immediately what she was talking about. "Just—" he didn't even stop to think before he offered "—just look at me, okay? Just listen to the questions and give me the answers. Talk to me. I'll be on the opposite side of the courtroom from him, so you won't ever have to look near him."

"You…" Professor Matthews stared at him, and as Ryan watched the shock spread across her face, he wondered if he might've pushed their strange, unexplainable connection a little too far. "You'd do that?" she asked then, sounding both awed and even kind of excited at the promise.

"Sure," Ryan replied at once, not seeing the point in saying no now, especially having seen her confidence boosted. He couldn't help but smile as he added, "Come on, what guy wouldn't want to listen to all the mundane details of a woman's married life? _Riveting,_" he teased, barely even aware that he had access to humor at the moment.

To his relief, she smiled faintly in return, and Ryan watched it, focused on it, before the smile faded and she asked, "What… What about the days you don't have court? Where should I look then? Just at the lawyers?"

"I can come those days, too."

She blinked, surprised at his swift reply. Ryan couldn't blame her; he'd surprised himself, too. He didn't even have time to ask himself what he was doing before she did it for him: "You… can?" she wondered hesitantly, as if she believed this all too good—or too crazy—to be true.

"Yeah," he replied, not bothering to stop this now that it had already gone so far. What were a few extra days in court, anyway, in the grand scheme of things? "I mean… If it would make you feel better."

"It would," Professor Matthews replied immediately.

Ryan couldn't help but smile at her quick response. "Well, okay then," he nodded. "It's a plan. I'll see you when court's in session."

Professor Matthews nodded, throwing a quick smile in his direction before backing away and heading to the door. Ryan watched her go, watched her put her hand on the doorknob, before she paused and turned around. "If…" She pivoted to face him. "If you need someone to look to too, when you're up there, you know you can…" She shrugged, and he could see embarrassment etching itself into the lines around her mouth when she smiled nervously. "You can look at me and tell me your answers, too, Agent Hardy. If you want," she qualified quickly.

Ryan felt his lips turn up in an impetuous smile as he stared across the room at her. He couldn't suppress it; after months of being completely alone—and worse, constantly ridiculed—about his theory on Carroll and his gothic leanings, it was nice to have someone on his side. It was even nicer to have someone _volunteer _to be on his side.

He tried not to focus too much on exactly _who _that someone was. He didn't need yet another ethical headache after all he'd been through, and not before all that he was about to go through.

He'd been putting off the attorneys for far too long and he knew he'd have to speak to them soon. There was no doubt in his mind that the court proceedings would end up taking much more time than expected, and they would most likely be more painful than anticipated, too. Maybe she'd be able to help, if only a little bit.

"You know," he began, looking over to meet her nervous gaze, "I think I will."

A smile broke out across her face immediately, but he could tell it had more to do with being relieved from the awkward silence than his affirmative answer. He didn't mind.

"But… on one condition, Professor Matthews," he added, just as she was about to leave.

She raised her eyebrows, amusement turning up her lips instead of embarrassment this time. "Oh, yeah?" she wondered, a challenge making itself known in her tone of voice and quickly crossed arms. "And what's that?"

He stared at her for a moment, choosing his words carefully. He knew he didn't have to say it. He knew he didn't have to bring it up. But he couldn't let himself keep living like his professional life—the only life he had that really mattered—hadn't ended the moment Carroll had driven that knife into his heart. "You have to call me Ryan from now on."

She blinked upon hearing the stipulation; he could see in her eyes that she hadn't expected it.

"I'm not an agent anymore," he admitted, struggling not to keep his voice a whisper so he could hide the truth. "I'm not… not part of the FBI," he muttered, unable to lift his eyes from the floor, "so you shouldn't address me like I am."

There was a long paused before the sound of her heels moving across the linoleum cut through the silence. Ryan looked up when he heard her come close, and he was surprised by the look of utmost sympathy he saw on her face. He wanted to step away, to move away, to leave the room—but she was standing between him and the door and he knew there was no escape.

"You'll always be part of the FBI, Agent Hardy."

He shook his head at once, jerking it from side to side as he listened to her speak. It hurt more than he'd expected to hear those words again, probably because she actually believed them when she said them aloud. When Jenny had said the same thing to him after Franklin's initial visit, at least they'd both known the truth. Jenny had been lying through her teeth to make him feel better, but Professor Matthews, it seemed, somehow still managed to have an ounce of naïveté left inside her. He wondered, privately, how one woman could be so damn gullible. "Please don't."

"It's true," she insisted, and Ryan couldn't help but wonder if she really was _that _oblivious or maybe just rude as she continued: "You may not be able to go back to being an agent in the field, and they may've given you disability and time off, but that doesn't mean that all your work and all your accomplishments have just disappeared. Your—Your legacy is still there. Whatever you wanted to leave behind… I'm sure it's been left for everyone to see."

"I would rather not have had to leave anything behind," he replied quietly.

"Yeah, well, me too," she replied, her voice surprisingly curt. "But what's done is done, all right? There's no way to change it." She stared him down as he finally met her eyes. "You'll find another job; I know you will. You'll find something else to do. You have to." She chuckled humorlessly, shrugging as she held up her hands. "Hey, if I can do it, so can you."

Ryan was nodding along complicity before he'd even really digested his words, but his head snapped up when he realized what she'd just implied. "Wait, what do you mean, 'If I can do it'?" he asked, quoting her. "What happened—"

"I quit," she answered at once, knowing what he was getting at. "To… make a… _very_ long story short," she added with a sigh, shutting her eyes briefly. "What?" she asked, upon opening them and finding him staring at her. "What did you expect me to do?"

"I…" Ryan shook his head dumbly, not knowing what to say.

"Parents already don't want to send their kids to Winslow because of Joe. If they were to find out his wife was still teaching there, or even on the school's payroll in any capacity…"

"You didn't hurt those girls," Ryan couldn't help but point out, feeling himself bristle at the injustice of it. "You didn't do anything to anyone."

"No," Professor Matthews agreed, "I didn't. But come on. People—students, parents, _donors_—will see me and _immediately_ think of Joe." She shook her head, looking to the floor. "I didn't have a choice," she murmured, her voice much sadder now. "I couldn't stay there, so instead of waiting to be fired, I resigned." She sniffed. "Three—Three days ago."

Ryan swallowed, staring at her for a long while in utter silence. There was nothing for him to say, and yet—again—he found himself wishing he knew how to comfort her. In all the chaos surrounding that night at the sorority house, his subsequent hospitalization, and the devolution of his career, Ryan hadn't once stopped to think about the toll all of this must be taking on Professor Matthews' life. Her marriage was ruined, her family torn apart… She was a single mother of an infant and now she had no job…

"I…" Ryan licked his lips nervously, struggling to think of the appropriate thing to say. He wished he had Jenny's penchant for convincing white lies. "I'm sorry to hear about that, Professor Matthews."

She smirked faintly, catching his eye. "You don't need to call me that anymore, either." She shrugged weakly. "I'm as much a professor as you are an agent of the FBI. So it's just 'Claire' now."

Ryan didn't bother pointing out that she'd spent the last couple of minutes trying to convince him otherwise, trying to convince him that he still deserved his title. He hadn't appreciated it coming from her, and he greatly suspected she wouldn't appreciate it coming from him, either. However, her line of work was far easier to break into, and he felt she should be reminded of that, especially now. "You'll be a professor again," he told her. "There are plenty of colleges who need good teachers. You'll find something, I know you will."

She smiled without happiness, as if to merely thank him for giving forth the smallest amount of effort possible to console her. That she would think so little of him hurt more than he'd expected. "Tell that to the ever-growing pile of rejection letters in my recycling bin. It's starting to feel like I'm getting two 'No's for every résumé I send out."

"This will all blow over," Ryan assured her. "You—"

"Will it?" she questioned at once, her eyes trained on his so intently that Ryan got the idea that she'd been waiting a long time to hear a real answer. "Will it really?"

He closed his mouth, pausing a moment to think. "Not… immediately," he admitted. "But when is it ever immediate?" he hurried to add. "People will forget. _Slowly,_" he stressed, "and some a lot slower than others… But they'll forget."

She studied him for a very long and very silent minute before finally asking, "Will you?"

He shook his head, not wanting to bother with such a blatant lie. "No," he answered at once.

She looked visibly shaken as she followed up, her voice breaking as she whispered, "Will… Will I?"

He stared over at her for a very long while before managing to think of something to say in reply. He didn't want to lie, but he didn't want to be brutally honest, either. Not to her, and not now. She didn't need any of that, so he chose the best alternative that was left available to him. "I truly hope so, Claire."

The weakest smile turned up her lips at his use of her first name, but even it soon disappeared. "Me too," she murmured quietly, before turning around and heading back to the door. She stared at him for one moment more as she stood there with her hand on the knob, taking her time to study his face for something before finally telling him, "I'll look for you in court, Ryan," and leaving.

Ryan watched her go until the door snapped closed, and then he slowly turned back to what he'd been doing when she arrived. He put on his jacket, grabbed his wallet, and gathered his discharge papers off the side table and then made for the exit. It wasn't until he was reaching for the door that he realized he had one too many things. He froze, his mind battling it out: keep it or leave it. Keep it or leave it?

He reached into his pocket, brushing his fingers against the leather case of his Bureau badge. He shut his eyes as he pulled it out and opened it up. He didn't want to think about having to go into the FBI's offices tomorrow—or whenever the paperwork went through—and turn it in to one of Franklin's lackeys, some fresh-faced kid that didn't know the difference between being _in _and being _out; _who didn't know the difference between a job and a career, and who knew even less about losing the latter.

It was a rash and immature decision, tossing his badge in the hospital's trash bin, but Ryan didn't regret it. He stared at it as he pulled the door open, watching his once most treasured possession fall in among the remnants of his half-eaten breakfast from earlier in the morning, and he couldn't help but smile. In his mind's eye, he could see Director Franklin bending over to pick it up, having to rifle through the refuse, and he actually grinned for a split-second. It was the smallest, most ludicrous bit of justice… But it was all he had.

The trial would start soon, and that would be a different kind of hell; different from the hospital visits and the disability—different from anything he'd ever experienced before. He hadn't had to stand in court in years, and never did he have to be anything close to a key witness. As he walked through the lobby to the reception desk to check himself out of the hospital's care, he couldn't help but remember Claire Matthews's offer.

For the first time since she'd suggested it, he seriously considered her words. He didn't think he could be in the same building as Carroll, let alone the same room, without wanting to leap over the witness stand and throttle the psychopath, so maybe it would be good to have a distraction. Maybe it would be a good idea to direct his answers to someone else, and to focus on someone else.

And maybe if he didn't think about it all too hard, he could forget that she was Carroll's wife, forget that she could very easily have been either a victim or accomplice, and just talk to her. He could look in her eyes, tell her the truth, and hope to God that she'd do the same with him when her time came.

After everything that had happened, hope was all he had left. He prayed that it would be enough to get him through this.

.

.

.

**Author's Note:** Thank you for reading. Reviews would be greatly appreciated—even if you read the first "draft," I'd love to hear how this one lines up… Hopefully it's better. :)


End file.
